But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn Page B

Iran-contra mess and how it would affect his legacy.
    â€œThe Cold War caused more bloodshed than the First or Second World War,” said a garrulous research guy. “But even so, remember that Reagan left his presidency with the highest approval rating since FDR. I think schoolkids will ultimately know him as the president who ended Communism. Although he was hardly a genius when it came to foreign policy. He didn’t know what to do when it came to Cuba, or China, for that matter—”
    â€œHe barely touched the situation with Palestine and Israel—”
    I watched them eagerly, absorbing every word. I always wanted to have spirited, informed arguments around the dinner table about politics and ethics and religion like the characters in Woody Allen movies. In college, I imagined that my friends and I would have long, passionate discourses about life and relationships, like people did in Eric Rohmer movies. As I watched the group with wide, unblinking eyes, I thought about last night’s discussion in the kitchen with my parents.
    It had begun, as it always did, with my father pouring himself a Dewar’s. Every night at six he had his Dewar’s and a small bowl of something salty like microwave popcorn. He never deviated from his routine, even when I once took my parents to Europe. When I joined them on the first night in their hotel room, I watched as my father unpacked a Tupperware container of Dewar’s.
    â€œDad, you can probably get scotch here,” I said. “It’s Vienna, not Papua New Guinea.”
    â€œEven if you could get it, it’s probably more expensive,” he said, struggling to remove what looked to be a shiny brown throw pillow that he had shoved in his luggage. It was a large Ziploc bag of Chex Mix.
    My father sat heavily down at the kitchen table and got himself situated. “You need to set up a 401(k) as soon as possible,” he said.
    â€œJesus, Jay,” said my mother. “She just got the job.” Still in her work clothes, my mother kicked off her shoes and reached for the scotch. It was my night to cook dinner, so I was bent over the stove making spaghetti, my old standby. Boil spaghetti, add jarred sauce, cut iceberg lettuce into wedges and slop on dressing, serve.
    â€œShe can’t rely on Social Security,” boomed my father. I could see he was gearing up for one of his favorite lectures: If You Think That Social Security Is Going to Be Around When You Retire, You’d Better Think Again. “By the time she’s a senior, she’ll probably have nothing,” he said. “Payroll taxes would need to double to cover the projected costs of Social Security and Medicare.”
    Most people harbor one overriding fear, one that both haunts them and drives them forward. Mine is that I’ll be old and penniless, which has directly stemmed from the post-apocalyptic tone of my father’s seminars.
    â€œHow much do you have in savings?” he demanded. I told him the amount. He stared at me for effect, then sorrowfully pulled his bag of popcorn out of the microwave and emptied it into a bowl. “That’ll last you a year,” he said over his shoulder. “One year.”
    Our ancient cat, twenty-one and practically freeze-dried, wobbled into the kitchen, sat down, and began to convulsively gag, doing its elderly best to bring up a hairball. “Not on the goddamn rug,” my mother said, sighing.
    My recollection was broken by the voice of the researcher. “I notice you’ve been listening to our little debate,” he said. “What do you think?” To my horror, the whole cluster of Rolling Stone staffers was looking at me with bright, curious eyes. No. Oh, no. This was my nightmare. Why didn’t I read my folks’ Newark Star-Ledger more carefully?
    â€œMe?” I squeaked. I was incapable of this kind of discourse. Usually, I ask a question that incorporates what a person